


Steadily On Toward Morning

by RonnaWren (Wolf_of_Lilacs)



Category: Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: Comfort they don't deserve, F/M, repost, this was my ship once smh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2019-09-22 02:57:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17051741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolf_of_Lilacs/pseuds/RonnaWren
Summary: What is perspective worth, anyway?





	Steadily On Toward Morning

**Author's Note:**

> Why am I reposting? Hell if I know.

Relationships begin. Relationships end. And parties split asunder. They didn't see until history abandoned them.

Until this moment, they had never met. There had only been greetings from across crowded halls and meandering comment threads on articles about them both, as well as the occasional sardonic Tweet and timid Facebook message. But after so many months of this strange not-friendship, they stand face-to-face, alone.

She remembers months ago, when Bernie Sanders had first been a thorn in her side.

He remembers, months ago, when Donald Trump had first been a thorn in his.

She assumed the worst: That this charismatic, progressive old man would steal Hillary's moment.

He assumed the best: That the crude, crass rich man would fall as swiftly as he had risen.

She did everything in her power to halt Bernie Sanders, from encouraging super delegates' endorsements before the primaries began to minimizing the number of debates.

He sat back and watched as Donald Trump trampled all his plans for a new, inclusive GOP into oblivion.

They face each other, somewhat at a loss. They had arranged this meeting weeks ago, yet now have nothing to say. The silence stretches uncomfortably.

They first exchanged words on a brutal blog post that compared them to the unscrupulous party bosses of old.  
"Priebus only aspires to Richard Daley equivalence. Wasserman Schultz is the real thing," concluded the author.

"I'm not that bad," she quipped.

Naturally, he was the only commenter to agree. 

"Well. This is ... fun," he says into the quiet.

"Indeed," she replies. "I almost feel like I have nothing to say to you."

"You could, ah, tell me how successful I have been at uniting my party," he suggests, half seriously.

"I'm not here to congratulate you on anything," she retorts. "I just ... need ..." Since her resignation, she had felt as though she was moving toward nothing.

He nods. Despite his apparent success, his position is as precarious as hers had been before her fall. What else can it be, with the identity of the president-elect?

He kept his party together with many, many rolls of schotch tape: Inadequate maneuvers that only aggrevated the disparate elements.

She kept hers together with duct tape: A desperate maneuver that changed the game entirely. Yet Sanders's endorsement of Hillary and the manufactured unity were not enough to prevent the ultimate outcome.

In the end, they were both abandoned by their allies. In the end, they had no one left. Hence this meeting.

"I need to see you," she messaged him.

"Yes," he replied. "No one else will give me the time of day to explain myself."

"The day after the election," she suggested.

He agreed.

"Um, we don't need to keep standing here," he says awkwardly. Their conversation thus far has taken place just inside the door of his DC apartment.

"Fine with me," she says. They enter the living room, and perch upon the couch. The silence returns.

"Oh to hell with this," she grumbles, scooting close to him and taking his hand. "I didn't come here for first-date ridiculousness."

"This isn't a date," he says, confused, oddly hopeful.

"No, it isn't," she agrees, "so let's stop with the charade." He nods uncertainly, then raises his arm as if to lay it across her shoulders. "Go for it," she encourages. “We’ve got nothing to lose.”

Erstwhile challender Bernie Sanders stumped for Hillary with as much zeal as he had when fulminating against her during the primaries. Instead of drawing in supporters, he alienated them spectacularly. "You traitor!" they Tweeted. "#dousetheBern."

"I only wanted her to win," Wasserman Schultz laments. "I didn't want 2008 2.0."

"I only wanted to keep the Party together," Priebus despairs. "Instead I've helped put a monster in the White House. And hurt the Party I have always loved beyond any potential revival."

"If she'd had a better record, she could have stood against him."

"If he hadn't had such a broad appeal, he wouldn't have won."

They gaze at each other in anguish.

"How will we be remembered?" he whispers.

She gestures helplessly.

During his nightmarish convention, Wasserman Schultz offered her assistance in a condescending Tweet.

After the leaked emails, her resignation was inevitable. Priebus exulted at first—especially over her now bitterly ironic offer, but was reminded incessantly that history would not be kind to him.

Months passed, and Trump rose in the polls. Hillary fell. And both Wasserman Schultz and Priebus were eviscerated by every respectable member of the Establishment, as well as everyone outside it.

They sit, nestled together. What comfort they can get is dubious. But here they are, while the world falls to pieces around them. Two half-empty wine glasses rest on the coffee table.

"I wish you had been where I was," he says as he kisses her.

"Oh? I wish you had resigned when I did. I at least had perspective."

"What is perspective worth?" he asks.

"It's overrated," she concludes, and they continue their desperate cuddling.

"What can we do to make our legacies better?" she sighs, rubbing her thumb across the back of his hand.

"I don't know. But I love you, always," he replies.

"I love you, too," she murmurs. The night marches steadily on toward morning.

In the morning, all remains unchanged, except that they no longer feel alone.


End file.
